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06776_Field_TCUM T341.txt
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1996-04-10
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851b
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16 lines
Why dost thou thus
Through windows, and through curtains call on us?
Must to thy motions lovers’ seasons run?
Saucy, pedantic wretch, go chide
Late school-boys, and sour prentices,
Go tell Court-huntsmen, that the King will ride,
Call country ants to harvest offices,
Love, all alike, no season knows nor clime,
Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.
Much of Donne’s twentieth-century vogue was due to his
challenging the authority of the new Gutenberg age to invest
him with the stigmata of uniform repeatable typography and
with the motives of precise visual measurement. In like manner,
Andrew Marvell’s “To his Coy Mistress” was full of contempt for
the new spirit of measurement and calculation of time and